The Spitfire

by Bertrice Small

  “I do not think she would mind if you sat by her side, my lord.”

  “My mother!”

  “Her ladyship has already sent for Lady Fleming,” Lona replied.

  “A priest!” the earl cried.

  “God’s foot, man, yer wife isna dying, and the bairn will nae need christening until he’s born,” Angus said good-naturedly. “Go on to yer woman, Tavis. I dinna mind my own company as long as yer fine wine holds out.”

  Lona had already departed the hall, and the earl hurried after her. When he reached Arabella’s apartments he was met by Flora, who said matter-of-factly, “Yer mam will nae get here in time, my lord, for never hae I seen a bairn so eager to be born than this one. Why, one moment yer lady was sitting quietly wi’ her embroidery hoop, and in the next minute she was laboring to bring forth the bairn.”

  “Flora!” Arabella’s voice sounded stridently.

  “I’m here, my lamb,’’ the older woman said soothingly, “and here’s the cause of all yer troubles himself.’’

  Arabella was half seated in a birthing chair, her legs spread and raised upon two wooden runners. Her beautiful face was flushed, her brow dappled with beads of perspiration, yet she smiled when she saw her husband. “Ohh, Tavis! The babe is coming! Before the night is out we shall have our child!’’

  “More before the hour’s out,” Flora muttered beneath her breath as the earl bent to kiss his wife.

  Tavis Stewart heard the serving woman’s words and he grinned. “‘Tis the first day of spring, lovey, though the winds are yet cold and from the north. I think it is a good omen that our first son be born upon the first day of spring.”

  “Spring is a young girl,” Arabella said. “The king told me that when we were at court last year.” Then as a spasm passed over her face, she groaned deeply.

  “That’s it, my lamb,” Flora encouraged her mistress, and then she glanced up at Lona. “Are the blankets warming, lass?’’

  “Aye! I’m ready,” Lona said brightly.

  “Lovey, is there much pain?” the earl fretted, and Flora rolled her eyes back in her head.

  “Birthing a bairn is nae easy, my lord,” she told him.

  “I’m all right, my love,” Arabella assured him, and then groaned again with even more feeling than the last time.

  The earl paled even as Flora said brightly, “That’s it, my lady! Aye, there’s the wee one’s head now. Look, my lord! Lona! Push now, my lamb. Push!”

  Arabella groaned and bore down with all her strength. Now Flora was moving into position between the wooden runners and bending down to help her mistress. “Ohhhh, Flora!” Arabella shrieked. “I feel it coming! I feel it coming!”

  “Aye, my lamb, here’s its little head and shoulders already born. Push but once more. Aye, here’s the bairn,’’ Flora crowed as the baby slipped from its mother’s womb and into her capable hands. Quickly Flora wiped the birthing blood from the baby with warm oil as it lay upon a mat upon the floor. Then she neatly clipped and knotted the cord, wrapping the baby tightly in its swaddling clothes as the infant scrunched up its little face and screamed with outrage.

  “She’s her mother’s daughter,” said the earl, having astutely noted his child’s sex as Flora tended to her.

  “You are not disappointed?” Arabella said quietly, another spasm passing over her face as she passed the afterbirth.

  “Nay, lovey. Yer safe, wee Maggie is safe, and we’ll hae other bairns,” he told her, kissing her brow again.

  “She’s a good breeder,” Flora said approvingly. “She nae be like her poor mother.’’

  ‘‘Give me my daughter,’’ Arabella demanded of her husband, who was now cradling the infant and making soft cooing noises, which had strangely quieted the baby. “Is everyone to see this miracle before I am?”

  Flora smiled and Lona giggled as the earl handed his daughter to her mother. “Bid yer mother a good evening, wee Maggie,” Tavis Stewart said, bending to place the child in Arabella’s arms. Amazement and awe lit the Countess of Dunmor’s beautiful features as she gazed upon her offspring for the first time. The infant’s features were perfect, and although she did not have a great deal of hair upon her head, what hair she had was pale gold like her mother’s. Her skin was pink and healthy looking. Her eyes blue and alert. This was obviously a baby who would survive.

  “Ohh, my little love,” Arabella said softly with delight as she gazed upon her daughter. Lady Margaret Stewart, however, opened up her rosebud mouth and howled loudly, her dainty miniature features growing scarlet with her indignation.

  “What is the matter with her?” Arabella cried, frightened.

  “She is her mother’s daughter,” the earl repeated over the din of his offspring’s cries. “A spitfire’s temper and a mind of her own. It will take a strong-willed Scotsman to tame her, lovey.”

  “A strong-willed Englishman,” Arabella said.

  He looked puzzled.

  “This is Greyfaire’s heiress, my lord. You promised me. Now that Margaret has been born, you must go to the king and see that our daughter’s inheritance is restored to her,” Arabella said seriously.

  “I will provide for my daughter,” the earl said as seriously. “And besides, Jemmie is worse than useless in his mourning. He’ll do naught for us, lovey.”

  “You promised me, my lord!” There was an edge to her voice.

  “My lady, gie me the bairn,” Flora said. “Lona will look after her tonight, and ye need yer rest.’’

  She was tired. Suddenly and without warning, very tired. Arabella allowed her husband to put her to bed after Flora had sponged her down with perfumed water and placed a fresh chemisette of soft white silk upon her body. He laid her gently upon the fragrant lavender-scented sheets, settling her carefully upon her pillows. Then to everyone’s surprise, the earl kicked off his house slippers and climbed into bed with Arabella, drawing her tenderly into his arms protectively. “Leave us,” he told the two startled-looking women servants, and when they had gone, he spoke softly but firmly to his wife. “I hae given ye my word, Arabella, that I will try to regain Greyfaire for our eldest daughter, and I will keep my word to ye. Can ye nae understand that?”

  “When?” Her voice, though weak, was implacable.

  He nuzzled the top of her head. “When our wee Maggie is a month old, I will go to Jemmie and ask him to petition King Henry. It is all we can do, lovey. The Tudor may not choose to return yer precious Greyfaire to us. I hae told ye before that all we can do is try, but we will try. Ye must be patient, lassie.”

  “I am not very good at being patient,” she said low.

  “Then ‘tis a habit ye hae best learn if ye are to deal wi’ the powerful, lovey. Those in positions of authority are effective precisely because they are in positions of control over the impuissant and defenseless. Their power grows wi’ the vulnerability of others.”

  “When I was Greyfaire’s heiress,” Arabella said slowly, “I possessed the power of my station, but I no longer have that power, and I hate it! At least then I was in a position to take charge of my own life. I no longer am.’’

  “Oh, lovey,” the earl replied, “dinna let life chafe ye so, for ye will nae be happy if ye do. I would hae ye happy and content. We hae a beautiful daughter, my love, and I thank ye for her. Now try and sleep, for even an easy birth is an exhausting one.’’ He cuddled her in his embrace and kissed her fair head.

  Arabella sighed and closed her eyes, yet she could not stop the thoughts that raced through her mind. She wanted Greyfaire back, but it was not merely whim on her part. The thought of Sir Jasper Keane swaggering with pride of ownership about the keep that had been her family’s heritage for several hundred years was galling beyond all. He had no right to Greyfaire. He had stolen it, plain and simple. If he wanted a home, let him go back to his own Northby Hall. Surely, using his false charm and his handsome face as he had done with her and her mother, he could find himself another silly, innocent virgin heiress, or some hapless and
equally silly rich widow to wed. Then let him rebuild his own ancestral home in which to live, but she would have Greyfaire back for her daughter!

  Her daughter. The words echoed strangely in her head. She had a daughter, and by virtue of that very fact she was now a mother herself. A mother! She was a mother. In the months she had carried her child it had not seemed real, until now. How could she deny the reality of the infant murmuring in its sleep in the cradle by her bedside? The Countess of Dunmor felt her first strong surge of maternal concern. Greyfaire now belonged to Lady Margaret Stewart, and no one, Arabella decided, was going to deny her daughter her rightful inheritance!

  Margaret must have brothers, she thought fuzzily as sleep began to overcome her. At least six strong brothers who would be just like their father. Someday, Arabella decided, someday when her as yet unborn sons were grown, they would go over the border with their clansmen, and their Fleming and Hamilton cousins, and they would burn Sir Jasper Keane’s fine new Northby Hall to the ground as their fathers had once done. Arabella smiled with satisfaction even as sleep reached up to claim her for its own.

  Realizing that his wife was now deep in the arms of Morpheus, the earl arose carefully from the bed and drew the coverlet over her. Stopping a moment to gaze down at his new daughter, he smiled and then tiptoed from the room. “She’s asleep,” he told Lona, who was waiting patiently outside the door. “Ye may go in now. Watch over my wee Maggie carefully, lassie.”

  “I will, my lord. Ohh, ‘tis so exciting! I only wish poor Lady Rowena were here to see her grandchild, but yer babe will have Lady Margery.”

  “Aye,” the earl agreed, “and my mother will spoil my wee Maggie fiercely, I’ve nae doubt.”

  Lona giggled and nodded vigorously. Lady Margery Fleming had shown serious signs of doting with regard to her two grandsons. This first granddaughter would undoubtedly be a favorite. The earl returned to his hall to find his mother had just arrived. A servant was even now taking Lady Fleming’s cloak, and both his sister Ailis and his sister-in-law Meg were with her.

  “Well?” she demanded, hurrying forward. “How is Arabella? How far along is she? Is she comfortable? Is she haeing a hard time of it? I didna want to say anything before now, but I pray she will nae be like her poor mother.’’

  “We hae a daughter,” Tavis Stewart said, laughing. “A fine, healthy bairn, Mother. She hae golden hair like my wee spitfire, and her mam’s hot temper to boot.”

  “What? Why was I nae called sooner?” Lady Margery said.

  “Ye were nae called sooner because there was nae time. Flora tells me that my wife is a natural breeder. Arabella had little warning of the birth and delivered quickly, wi’ little fuss that I could see.”

  “Aye, my lady, ‘tis true,” Flora said as she joined them. “She popped the wee bairn out like I’d pop a grape from its skin, and wi’ as little trouble too. Once she’s had time to heal, his lordship can get another bairn on her, and the next one will be a boy, I vow!” Flora grinned broadly.

  “I want to see my granddaughter immediately,” Lady Margery said firmly.

  “I’ll take ye up, yer ladyship,” Flora volunteered. “Lona is wi’ them, watching.”

  Lady Margery nodded her approval. “We’ll be staying the night, Tavis,” she said. “I didna come at a gallop from Glen Ailean to turn myself about to go home as quickly. I’ll want to speak wi’ Arabella in the morning about my granddaughter’s care. Come along, Ailis! Meg!” She strode from the hall, every inch the matriarch, the two younger women hurrying behind in her wake.

  “So ye’ve a lass, hae ye?” The Earl of Angus arose from his place by the fire and came over to Tavis Stewart, holding out his big hand that he might congratulate him.

  A servant came forward bearing a tray with two small silver dram cups upon it, which he offered to his master and his master’s guest.

  The two men accepted the drams, and Archibald Douglas raised up his cup saying, “Long life, good health, and good fortune to Lady Margaret Stewart!”

  The Earl of Dunmor raised his own cup in return. “God willing!” he answered, and together the two gentlemen drank down the potent whiskey which came from Dunmor’s own still. The smiling servant took the empty dram cups away as the two earls returned to seat themselves by the fire. “Is she bonnie, Tavis?”

  “Aye, Archie, she’s very bonnie,” came the reply.

  “I might take her for one of my boys then, if ye’ll consider it,” the Earl of Angus said.

  “I canna, though I thank ye for the compliment. Margaret is already promised.”

  “To whom?” Archibald Douglas was astounded. The newborn was not even an hour old yet and she was betrothed?

  “I dinna know,” Tavis Stewart said with a smile, “but he must be an Englishman.” Then the earl went on to explain the situation.

  “Ye think ye’ll get yer wife’s inheritance back?” Angus said.

  “Perhaps under the circumstances, aye. At the moment the English are more favorably disposed to the Scots than they hae been in years, Archie.”

  “But I wonder if they are foolish enough to gie a border keep to the daughter of a Stewart earl?” Angus answered slowly, considering the situation. “Still, even if the lass is raised in England after her sixth year, in those six years ye can make her a Scot for life. It canna hurt to hae a friendly refuge on the English side of the border, Tavis. Yer a clever bastard, by God! But what if ye canna regain yer wife’s Greyfaire?”

  “If the matter is aired publicly between the two kings, then King Henry will hae to pay Arabella a forfeit in exchange for Greyfaire, although I know that will make her very angry. She will hae her home back and nothing less.’’

  “Ye must kill Sir Jasper Keane, of course,’’ Archibald Douglas said.

  “I hae intended doing that in any event,” Tavis Stewart replied. “There is still that matter of my honor between us, and although it matters to no one else, it does matter to me. I will hae my revenge upon him.”

  “They say he hae gone south to serve King Henry. He must still fear yer wife that he would try so hard to solidify his position wi’ the Tudor.”

  “He needs a new wife too,” Tavis Stewart noted. “He hae neither gold nor sons to recommend him, yet ‘twill take time for that lickspittle to worm his way into King Henry’s favor. Particularly now wi’ all the Tudor’s troubles yet wi’ the Yorkists, but should, by chance, Sir Jasper Keane gain the king’s promise of confirmation to Greyfaire, he will nae live long enough to enjoy the fruits of his dishonorable conduct. That I can promise any who ask,” the Earl of Dunmor said grimly.

  Chapter Twelve

  Henry Tudor looked curiously upon the man before him. His name was Jasper Keane, and he was a knight from the north. The king had a certain instinct where men were concerned, and that instinct was now warning him to be cautious with Sir Jasper Keane.

  “So you see, my liege, with my wife dead in childbed, there are no longer any Greys left at Greyfaire Keep. I have been master there for almost three years, and I would beg your majesty’s leave to continue on in my duties with the hope that someday I might be considered worthy to be confirmed in my wife’s inheritance.” Sir Jasper smiled toothily, bowing obsequiously.

  “I am not quite certain of the recent history of Greyfaire, Sir Jasper. You must refresh my memory. Your wife was the heiress of Greyfaire? She was born a Grey?”

  Jasper Keane considered lying, but then thought better of it. There were too many alive and even now in the king’s favor who could tell Henry Tudor the truth. “Rowena, may God assoil her sweet soul,” he began piously, “was married to Henry Grey, the last Grey Lord of Greyfaire, Sire. When she was widowed, I wed her.”

  “There were no offspring of her first marriage?” the king queried.

  “A daughter,” Sir Jasper said shortly.

  “She is dead?” the king pressed gently.

  “The wench was carried off in a border raid by the Scots,” he said.

  “She is dead?�
�� the king repeated.

  Again Sir Jasper considered lying. When several days after Arabella’s abduction the word had come that the Earl of Dunmor had married her, Jasper Keane had been made a laughingstock in the district. There had already been a great deal of nasty talk about his hasty marriage as it was. Yet, here again, he dare not lie. “I understand the girl was married off to some nobly born bastard, Sire, but I could not say for certain. She has not communicated with me, even when her mother died. She is a feckless, spoilt wench who cares for naught but herself, I fear.”

  “Still,” the king considered aloud, “she is Greyfaire’s rightful heiress.” Seeing the play of emotions cross Sir Jasper’s face, Henry Tudor knew he was wise not to promise the man anything concrete. There had been fury in the man’s eyes for a brief moment before he had quickly masked his emotions. “Have you land of your own, Sir Jasper?” the king asked in pleasant tones, not quite ready to shut the door upon this man.

  “My home was destroyed by the Scots,” Sir Jasper Keane said tightly.

  The king nodded. “So Greyfaire Keep is now your home?”

  “Aye, my liege.”

  Sir Jasper Keane obviously did not have the wherewithal to rebuild his own house, the king thought. He was hungry for legal possession of Greyfaire Keep. With it he might attract a wife with some substance of her own. He motioned to his secretary, who bent down to hear his master’s words. “This Greyfaire. Is it important? Rich? Large? In other words, is it worth having?” he demanded in low tones.

  “It is a small border keep, majesty, and virtually impregnable. There is no real wealth attached to it. One village and some acreage. Its only real value is in its location. The Scots usually invade from that direction, and it has always served as the first warning outpost for England in the north.”

  The king considered, and then said to his secretary, “You have heard. If you were me, would you give this keep over to Sir Jasper, or would you seek the heiress in Scotland?”